My whole life, I’ve cared a lot about what people think of me. I’ve wanted to be liked. And I’ve tried and tried and tried to make that happen.

And you know what? It can’t be done, despite my best efforts. In the end, I’m still me, and people will like me (or not), respect me (or not), care for and about me (or not) based on both the person I am and the people they are.

Last November, a minority of Americans made a choice that could destroy us all. Last December, I turned fifty. And between those two events, it was like a switch flipped. I have no fucks left to give. That doesn’t mean I don’t care, just that I don’t care what the “they” think.

On our way to join the crowd.

In January, I marched in DC, despite my fears. My friends were there and made it possible.

At a rally (alone, yet!) on International Woman’s Day.

In February, I got the pink/purple streak in my hair that I hadn’t had since college.

At Gnostic Tattoo. A proud snowflake who will always “get back up”.

In March, I got some new ink – both personally and politically relevant to where my head is now.

And so far in April, I invited myself to an event just because, and had a lovely time. I experienced a public humiliation and got back up. When people ask me what I think, I tell them. Simply, directly, with no apologies and only a bit of fear.

Nothing’s really changed for the “they”, but everything has changed for me. It’s hard. It will stay hard. There are days I backslide. But I believe that in the end (and in the now) it is worth it.

And as I go forward, I will keep my fucks for myself. Not give them to the “they”.